ALTERNATIVE MARKETS

The market for wild caught pelts for the fur industry is depressed this year. A big raccoon which would have been worth 35 dollars a few years ago when Russian crude was selling for $100 a barrel will sell this year for maybe five-bucks if you can find a fur buyer who is even open for business.

Life like taxidermy work is fine art.  

But trapping is more than a way to make money, it’s an outdoor sport every bit as important to me as fishing, shooting and hunting. It’s a way to keep fur bearing animal populations under control and healthy. Whether I sell my pelts for $10 or $100 makes little difference at the end of the season. Still, as a guy who picks up lost pennies when I spot one in a parking lot, I’d like to get the most money possible for my effort.

There are other businesses using wild-caught animals, besides furriers. I’ve sold pelts to fly-tiers and crafters. There’s a limited demand for raccoon and opossum meat. Mepps lures will buy the tails from legally harvested squirrels to make their spinners. Another business often buying wild animals are taxidermists.

Some taxidermists only mount animals for hunters. A hunter bags a big buck or nails a coyote while on his or her deer stand then hauls it down to Joe’s Stuffing Store and pays Joe to bring it back to life - almost.

Squirrels are often used as novelty items. 

However, many taxidermists also mount animals to sell to non-sportsmen. There’s a market for wildlife displays in offices, dens, restaurants and other locations, just as there is a market for man-made sculptures, paintings and other artwork. Those animals have to come from somewhere.

The price of furs is strictly based on supply and demand. Though the faltering economies in Russia and China this year undercut demand and prices for wild pelts for fashion, Joe’s Stuffing Store may still need a good number of animals to produce his boutique displays.

I’ve been selling a variety of animals to a taxidermy studio in Lake County for several years. In the past this taxidermist has paid up to $15 per raccoon, regardless of size, he also buys a few opossums, foxes, coyotes as well as squirrels, mink, weasels, rabbits and chipmunks as long as they were legally obtained.

A fox is a  rare catch for me. 

I harvested one fox and one mink this year on my trap line. Both were surprises since I was not trapping specifically for either. Fox are few and far these days, forced out by habitat changes and coyotes. Mink are more numerous, but since I don’t trap in or near water most of the time, finding one in a dry land raccoon trap is equally rare.

Instead of pelting them out and selling them into the fur trade where I would have been lucky  to garner fifteen dollars for both animals, I froze them whole and took them to the taxidermist. The taxidermist paid $30 for both animals. I’m not rich, but it beats picking up pennies.

STARLINGS AND MURMURS

There may not be a more disgusting and less useful bird on this planet than the European Starling. Ugh! What are they good for?  They aren’t particularly colorful. Their normal “song” sounds like a bearing going out on a push mower. They love to build nests in inconvenient places, and not just petite, nearly unnoticeable structures.

  Ever seen what looks like a half a bale of hay sticking out of a rain gutter?  Probably a starling nest.

  And they are an invasive species!  From Europe.  Probably not the civilized, crepe suzette or Charles Dickens part of Europe, either.  More likely from the part that produced vampires, world wars and iron fisted despots.

  My guess is now there are starlings everywhere from the Arctic to the Antarctic, from the mountains of Nepal to the Okefenokee Swamp.  Probably all building hay bale sized nests in rain gutters and martin houses where ever they live.

  But sitting in my car recently while Peggy hurried in for a last minute shopping excursion, I enjoyed a natural wonder that starlings do better than any other species.  They murmur.

  A starling murmur isn’t a bunch of them sitting around speaking in a guteral lower European language. It’s a few hundred of them, perhaps a few thousand, perhaps even more, flocking together and exhibiting an aerial display that makes the Navy’s Blue Angel flight team look like rank amateurs.

  This huge conglomeration of birds, fly in an amorphous flock in absolute synchrony. The shape of the flock, the height of the flock, the direction of the birds, flows like a million-bird living lava lamp.  It’s absolutely spectacular and not all that hard to see. Just watch for a flock over a field, forest or community near you, then pause and enjoy the show.

  And enjoyment, it must be. There’s no reason for a starling flock to form a murmuration other than for the pure fun of it. Like human’s dancing or shouting Dee-Fence in unison at football games; like antelope racing across the prairie just because they can.  

  Animals live to stay warm, well fed and produce enough offspring to keep their species prosperous. Whether the animal is a field mouse or an elephant. Some animals work their tails off to accomplish these three things. Others, do it quite easily and then spend some of the rest of their days enjoying life. Hippos take a swim. Lions sunbathe. Evidently, starlings murmur.

  Watch for it. There’s likely a starling murmuration going on near you today, tomorrow, where ever, whenever you are outdoors. They almost make pulling those hay bales out the gutters worthwhile.  

DO THE MATH

Most shotgun shooters agree anything they shoot at standing or flying 40 yards or less is in deep doo-doo if they shoot accurately. So doing the math, if a duck, turkey, rabbit or other game needs is in the same acre with them, it should be an easy shot.
Here’s the math. The formula to compute the area of a circle is pi (3.14) times the radius of the circle, squared.  Pi-R-Squared.  In this case, the radius is 120 feet. 120 X 120 X 3.14 equals 45,216 square feet.  There are 43,560 square feet in an acre so a 40 yard circle is just a tad larger than an acre.
Modern bow hunters usually feel comfortable twanging an arrow at a deer 30 yards away.  That’s tougher.  Using the Pi - R- Squared formula and dividing by the number of square feet in an acre, a deer hunter has to get his quarry in about the same six-tenths of an acre with him for it to be in range.
Indiana is a muzzloading rifle/deer slug only state. Though modern muzzleloaders have extended their range appreciably in the past decade or so and shotguns with scopes, rifled barrels and modern ammo make accurate longer shots possible, most deer-shooters accept a 100 yard shot is an acceptable range to bang away at a deer with either gun.
Doing the math as before, all a deer hunter needs to do is be in the same six and a half acres and Mister Big Buck is as good as dead.
When I set a coyote trap, my “kill area” isn’t registered in acres or even square feet. The trigger on my traps are about two inches in diameter. Pi-r-square two-inches and you have a target area only about 3 square inches in size. If the coyote steps on that 3 square-inch spot, I win. If not, the coyote goes his own way.

The green spots are coyote footprints. The red spot is the
is the location of the trigger on my trap. Lucky or cunning,
I lose! 

So what’s the toughest game in town?  I’m putting my money on coyote trapping, especially if you do it mathematically.

Stories on the St. Croix

 As a writer, I sometime go fishing because I have a story to tell.  The editor says, I need a story about fishing heavy weeds in midsummer.”  So I head to a weed-filled lake with someone who knows how to pull those fish living in the salad below the surface.

Brian started the story with a smallmouth bass.

 More fun is to go fishing and wait for the story to develop. What starts as a walleye fishing trip might evolve into a feature about tying knots or using a GPS to find and stay on the fish.

 That’s the sort of trip I took recently while attending an Outdoor Writer's conference in Minneapolis Northwest: specifically in Brooklyn Center, MN.

 Our fishing was done on the St. Croix River just east of Minneapolis where it forms the border between Minnesota and Wisconsin. The St. Croix is a major tributary of the Mississippi River that divides Miineapolis from St. Paul. I had no story, but I was waiting for a story.

 Bro Brosdahl is a walleye fishing guide, walleye tournament fisherman, an ice fishing angler so renown that Frabill, leader in the ice fishing gear industry hires him as a consultant. Bro grew up on the St. Croix River. What would happen when he returned to the St. Croix after a decades long hiatus?

 What would happen if Bro and I were sharing the morning with Brian Smith, a publisher, videographer, world traveler and good friend? Brian brought his daughter, Mya along. Would that be a story?

I didn’t know, but I knew the fishing trip would be interesting, fun, probably productive, undoubtedly I’d find a story or two sometime that morning. I was right.

Mya caught a Gar!  

 The St. Croix, so close to Minneapolis is hardly a wilderness setting. It’s a playground for outdoor enthusiasts from Wisconsin and the Twin Cities. There were kayaks, there were mega-yachts. There were plenty of fishing boats and with the nice weather day we had despite it being late September, factor in water-sports enthusiasts. But that’s not the story, that’s the back drop.

 Bro took us to a railroad bridge where he used to catch walleye on a regular
basis. We’d slowly drift with the current, bouncing a jig and minnow along the rocky bottom. Brian scored first, but it wasn’t a walleye; rather a smallmouth bass. Mya hooked up next and hauled in beautiful yellow perch. A dozen of those would make a great fish fry.

 Bro did catch a walleye, but it wasn’t fast action and not much of a story. So we moved downstream to an area with a naturally rocky bottom. The next fish to come aboard was a sauger, close cousin to a walleye, equally tasty. Then Brian, casting up to shallower water felt a strike and his fish stayed deep and only reluctantly allowed itself to be pulled to the surface. A three pound channel catfish was at the end of the line.

 “I believe I’m beginning to see a story line here,” I thought. We’ve caught four species of fish already. Then Mya’s rod doubled down and species number five was in the boat. She’d hooked and landed a short-nose gar.

Bro added a Sauger and others

 That, in itself is story-worthy, but that’s another tale. Gar are plentiful and fierce predators, but not often caught with hook and line.  I’ve never caught one or seen one caught.

 Bro, switched to a jigging spoon and soon hauled a good sized white bass to the surface. “Is there any species of fish in here we haven’t caught?” I asked.

 Bro laughed and said, “Well, there are pike and musky, but other than that, we’ve pretty well got everything covered.”

 Not quite. A few minutes later, his rod doubled down once more and stayed bent. We all watched down in the water to see what it was. Perhaps a pike or musky? Perhaps....

 The fish swished to the surface and I quickly slid the net under it, still unsure of what it was.  In the net, the ID was easy. It was a bigmouth buffalo. I’ve seen plenty of buffalo, have successfully bow fished for them, but again, I’ve never caught one or seen one caught.

 So that’s my story on the St. Croix River. A place with many kinds of fish to catch, and most of them willing to bite!

NINE ELEVEN REMEMBERED

It was just after my next to last long-range tuna fishing trip. I had the day off, it was sunny and bright.  I flipped on my kitchen TV to catch up on the overnight news. Word was an airplane had crashed into one of the world trade center towers in New York.

Amazing, I thought. How stupid, I thought. It’s odd how all those people who cram themselves into cities, high-rises and towers manage to live there surrounded by filth, corruption, crime and airplanes crashing into their buildings.

A couple weeks earlier, I’d been out on the Pacific Ocean, armed with a fishing rod and reel, a bucket of bait and was catching bluefin tuna and albacore. No high rise buildings once the boat left San Diego Harbor. High waves, high spirits, high hopes, sure. But I was just a fisherman.

Back at home with coolers full of tuna filets, today was to be tuna-canning day. I wasn’t about to let an errant airplane crashing into a New York skyscraper ruin it. That was a world away from my home in rural Indiana.

Before breakfast was done, I watched in almost real time - perhaps in real time - as a second plane sliced into the other tower. Unreal. That was no accident, I was sure. Fool me once shame on you....

I needed jars, lids and rings to preserve the tuna chunks.  Off to the store, 15 minutes away.  On the way, the radio reported a third plane crashing into the Pentagon and on the way home, reports of a plane crashing in rural Pennsylvania came across the airwaves.  I got home in time to watch almost in real time - or perhaps in real time - the first of the two towers crashing down.

While I was washing the jars and lids, the other tower crumbled. I don’t know which was worse, watching the individuals diving out of upper story windows or the harsh reality that once those buildings fell, survivors would be few. Early reports were as many as 50,000 people worked in those buildings. There was no telling if a quarter of them made it out, half?  Luckily, most made it out. Amazingly, most made it out. Surprisingly, most made it out.

As the jars of tuna cooked and

the weight on the top of the canner rattled, I kept an eye and ear on the TV and radio.  What had just happened?

One thing is for sure. The USA has never been the same since. It may never be the same. I’ll never be the same.

BAND THOSE HUMMERS

  I have a lot of favorite birds. Some I like to hunt. Some I like to watch. Some I like to listen for their song. Some I just like for their character, antics, lifestyle or other attributes. Who can’t admire a buzzard flying around most of the afternoon without flapping its wings more than a half dozen times?

One of my favorites is the hummingbird; specifically, in our area, the ruby throated hummingbird. I’m sure if I lived where other species are found, I’d like them equally well.

Compared to many birds, not much is known about the RTHs. Compared to others, quite a bit is known and a part of the research unlocking the truths about the hummers comes from banding studies.

These bands are strung on
diaper safety pins

Banding is when a researcher attaches a uniquely numbered “bracelet” on a bird’s leg. Data is logged about the bird as well as when and where it was captured and tagged. Then, when the bird is found, spotted or trapped elsewhere, the band number can be looked up and more data compiled. Banding easily reveals migration corridors and the timing of migrations.  Banding can reveal how long individual birds can live. There are many other facts and details derived from banding studies.

That’s why I set aside time to head to the Indiana Dunes State Park recently when a licensed hummingbird bander came to capture and band many of the hummers that frequent the bevy of feeders posted near the park’s nature center.

It was an interesting morning; first, seeing the type of traps used to snare the birds, then watching the expert handle the birds, record the data and seat the tiny numbered bands on the tiny little legs.  Dozens of people showed to watch the show.

The traps were basically fine meshed nylon netting fashioned into a “birdcage.”  The cage was mounted on the same hanger the hummer feeder had been dangling and the feeder itself was put inside the cage.

Attendees had plenty of
opportunities to photo the
banded birds

When a hummer showed up for a free drink of artificial nectar, it buzzed around the outside of the trap searching for a way to get into the sugary syrup.  In a minute or two it solves the puzzle, enters the trap and a trap monitor quickly goes to the cage to catch the hummingbird inside with a gentle touch. The bird is inserted into a soft, cloth bag and taken to the bander.

The measuring, recording and banding only takes a couple minutes and the bird, surprisingly doesn’t appear to struggle much. One process is much like the first or second so we didn’t stay to the end. Last year the hummer-band-man processed 26 of the little birds in the few hours he was at the Dunes. He had three waiting to process when we left and many more to come, no doubt.

THE MYTHICAL WALLEYE



Dale Strochein was right! The bass bite was on fire!

A few years ago I made an early May trip to Door County, Wisconsin for a couple days of fishing. I was slated to fish with several of the top guides that work the area. Though a salmon fisher at heart, I learned long ago to let "guide’s choice" be the order of the day. If the man says perch, don’t say bluegill. If the guide says striper, don’t argue for bluefish.

So when J.J. Malvitz, new to the guiding business but a lifelong Door County resident and fisherman said, walleye, so we went walleye fishing. The waters of Green Bay on the west side of the peninsula have a reputation for serving up walleye to visiting anglers, numbers at times and most certainly good sized specimens. Perhaps I should have asked J.J. to go brown trout fishing. The walleye prevailed, we were skunked.

My next trip was with Dale Strochein, once one of the top professional tournament walleye fisherman on the circuits, now proprietor of the Wacky Walleye Guide Service working out of Sand Bay Beach Lodge just south of Sturgeon Bay. I guessed guide Strochein would say, "walleye."

Wrong! Captain Dale said, "Conditions aren’t right for walleye. We’ll fish smallmouth bass."

I should have, could have, demanded walleye despite the guide’s wishes. The results would have been the same. Obviously, no walleye and no bass, either. He blamed it on the weather. I blamed it on the weather as well. It was miserable. "Come back again, sometime," Dale invited.

I watched Strochein’s FaceBook posts that winter as he showed picture after picture of him and his clients icing big walleyes and piles of whitefish. I checked my calendar, he checked his and a date was made a week or two later.

This time Strochein’s prediction was half right. "We’ll catch whitefish this afternoon, then towards sundown, the walleye will get active and we’ll go after them."

I finally nailed a mythical Green Bay walleye. Twenty seven incher!

We did catch whitefish.

On the way in after dark, I mentioned something about Green Bay’s walleye seem to be somewhat mythical. "Are 12 or 14 point bucks mythical?" he asked and continued. "No, of course not, but they aren’t easy to come by, either. Our walleyes are trophy fish, they don’t come easy. Come back again sometime and I’ll show you.

Yesterday, I came back. That evening at dinner the Hall of Fame angler said, "We’ll fish smallmouth tomorrow. That’s our best shot at success."

My reply, "There goes my shot at the mythical, Green Bay walleye!"

Dale was half right again. The bass fishing was terrific with one after another being hauled to the boat all morning. The wind died, the water calmed. "One last spot to try before we head in," Dale said.

He stopped on a sunken rock island a mile or so off Sister Bay. A few casts later, I got a solid strike. This fish felt different. This fish looked different under the water. This fish was different. It looked almost mythical!